


Ferndale Dock

by Connork1000



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: But he has a lot on his plate right now, Connor has a guilt complex, Connor is not ok, Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Markus is trying his best, PTSD, and trauma, markus is a good boyfriend, north is a good friend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27717776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Connork1000/pseuds/Connork1000
Summary: "He knew where his absent wandering legs would take him of course, this is where he always ends up on days like these, eventually.Sometimes, if the weather has been calm and the river relatively undisturbed, he can even make out faint glimpses of the enormous twisted structure encased in the depths. The decaying ruined metal catching the sunlight just right as it filters through the warming spring air of Michigan and into the freezing waters below, illuminating his people's fallen sanctuary.A sanctuary that he turned into a tomb."Connors guilt at his deviant-hunting past is beginning to catch up with him as he struggles to adapt to his emotions. Instead of learning to process them, he holds onto them. Hiding them deep down within himself to stew dangerously. Awaiting the slightest hair-trigger that will send him once again spiraling out of control.
Relationships: Connor/Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Ferndale Dock

If he was asked to describe what it was like, he would tell you that it sounded like the sharp sound of static screeching in his ears - but silent. Felt like a violent vibration shaking its way through his body - but still. It crept up like an incoming tide, pooling first around his ankles and rising up his legs, making them feel heavy and sluggish to move. As it encases his torso it compresses his chest, causing his thirium pump to malfunction, skipping beats and picking up speed erratically. As it ripples around his throat it becomes harder to force words up and through his lips, but it isn’t until the creeping shame starts lapping at the base of his skull that he identifies what is happening to him; only moments before he's submerged completely in thoughts of Why? Why? Why me?

Static. Shaking. Nothing. 

He starts walking.

The pavements and backstreets of Detroit seem to fall away under his footfalls. He no longer hears the crunch of gravel under his boots or the tap tap tap of steps on concrete. No longer feels the small shock-waves of impact or the rhythmic mechanical processes of moving his limbs. The small part of his processor that remains in the present instead of the sharp, swirling guilt of the past, wonders if this is a similar sensation to what humans describe as "being in a dream". Although Connor supposes that, if he could dream, his past would surely be more easily molded into nightmares.

He knew where his absent wandering legs would take him of course, this is where he always ends up on days like these, eventually. However, arriving at the sudden vision of the pavement falling away in front of his feet and into that dark rippling abyss never fails to send an acidic shock through his processors. 

On some days, if the weather has been calm and the river relatively undisturbed, he can even make out faint glimpses of the enormous twisted structure encased in the depths. The decaying ruined metal catching the sunlight just right as it filters through the warming spring air of Michigan and into the freezing waters below, illuminating his people's fallen sanctuary.

A sanctuary that he turned into a tomb.

He is thankful that this time he has arrived when it's already dark and is spared the visual reminder of one of his many great, unforgivable failures.

C:/RK800.serial#313248317.52

/ERROR > MALFUNCTION DETECTED

> SERVO [L.KNEE] + [R.KNEE]

>run diagnostic? [Y/N]

>N

:/SERVOS OFFLINE

Connor's knees hit the stone promenade with a loud crack but his ~~disassociated~~ malfunctioning sensory processors register his collapse as a gentle slow motion decent, the sharp smack of plastic on rock drowned out and muted by the screeching silent static trapped within his skull. The quietest creaking can be heard over the rush of the wind and the swell of the water as Connor grasps both hands together between his legs, squeezing tight enough to feel hairline fractures forming across the plastic of his chassis as his gel skin melts away under his fingertips from the pressure. His eyes stay fixated directly downwards, into the black depths. He can’t move. Each echoing rasp of a wave against the promenade seems to sync itself with the turbulent sea of loathing that has encased his body, causing rhythmic stabbing hurt to cascade up and over his heart in time with the waves. Each one dragging a little more of his soul out to sea with the receding tide.

[STRESS LEVEL > 7̶4̶%̶]

  
C̵:̵/̶C̸O̵M̷M̷S̴

̸W̴R̴4̵0̷0̴ ̴#̶6̸4̵1̴ ̵7̷9̷0̴ ̴8̴3̴1̶[̷N̶O̸R̶T̸H̶]̵ ̷>̷ ̷C̶o̷n̵?̴ ̵C̴a̶n̸ ̴y̵o̶u̶ ̴l̴e̸t̵ ̸m̴e̵ ̶k̵n̵o̶w̶ ̵w̷h̸e̸r̸e̶ ̶y̷o̴u̸ ̶a̵r̶e̷?̵ ̵W̵e̷'̷r̷e̴ ̵g̵e̵t̴t̵i̶n̷g̴ ̶w̷o̵r̷r̵i̵e̷d̸ ̸

He doesn’t know how long he’s been there by the time the message pops up on his HUD but he no longer has the presence of mind to respond to it or dismiss it even if he wanted to. Instead, he lets it hover for its allocated 60 seconds, framed in his peripheral vision by the swirling current before the words fade out of existence again. Another message appears two minutes and forty-three seconds later but he ignores that one as well. The letters are barely legible this time as his overtaxed systems struggle to decode anything from Jericho's encrypted channels, corrupting the message in the process.

[̸S̵T̶R̸E̴S̵S̶ ̸L̵E̷V̶E̷L̶ ̸≯ ̸8̷3̸%̸]̴

The next intrusion doesn’t come for almost five minutes. It arrives in the form of a sensation rather than a visual message. It's a gentle probing feeling at the base of his skull, like an impossibly hair-thin drill bit penetrating through layers of plastic and metal and wire trying to worm its way into his central processor. It almost tickles. And Connor knows that it should alarm him but he can’t bring himself to feel anything about it in his current state. In any case, there is only one android in existence that should be able to access him remotely with such ease.

  
His suspicions are confirmed when the intruder sends a ping requesting access to Connors GPS location to which Connor doesn’t respond. The presence waits three minutes and 38 seconds before overriding access to Connor's location and taking what it needs before retreating again from his mind. A brief bolt of crackling anger shoots through the android at this, _why would he even bother to request access if he was just going to take the co-ordinates anyway?_ His hands tighten around themselves, deepening the thin cracks forming around his wrists. It hurts in the distinct muted way in which androids are capable of feeling pain but he’s too afraid to let go lest he lose all semblance of control. He considers getting up to leave, to run, to hide before he’s found but his limbs are still frozen, slack, and useless on the ground and his flash of anger is quickly subdued back into despondency by the continued torturous crash of the waves.

\----------------------------------------------------------

It takes Markus barely fifteen minutes to arrive at the Ferndale docks, weaving back streets and rooftops as if he was part of the environment himself. No one back at Jericho has seen or spoken to Connor in over twelve hours now and the fact that Markus had arrived back from Washington earlier that afternoon and hadn’t attempted to contact the other android on his arrival - bogged down with work as he always was - felt like a noose around his neck. But he hadn’t known. How could he have known? It had been North who eventually brought the RK800s absence to his attention, worried that her friend - Markus’ _partner_ \- was in the midst of what they had all come to call one of his “bad days” - although Connor stubbornly continued to refer to these episodes as “malfunctions”.

He had known that North was correct in her concern before he had even accessed his partner's GPS location. He had _felt_ it. Connors normal response time to Markus’ messages or contact requests averaged a mere three point eight seconds, for him to overpass three _minutes_ without a response was practically unheard of. However, that didn’t stop the visual of that hauntingly familiar map marker pinned under a blinking text box reading [RK800-Connor] from feeling like the electric sting of a taser bouncing through his circuits.

  
The gentle sound of lapping water slowly begins to fill in the silence of the abandoned city, growing steadily in volume as he approaches the mouth of the damp alley that will soon open up into a broad, now empty, view of the Detroit River. A strong gust of wind whips around him as he steps out from between the two tall structures, causing his long jacket to dance frantically around his hips and legs and sending a roaring burst of feedback through his audio processors. He has been back here before of course, to remember, to pay his respects but part of him still expects his eyes to be greeted by the looming metal presence of that rotting ship. Discarded by its human creators and left to decay just as they had been. 

Somehow though the presence of the small silhouetted figure - huddled where the concrete falls into nothingness, taking up barely a fraction of the space their fallen sanctuary occupied - leaves a far greater hollowness in his chest than the absence of the ship ever could. He doesn't call out, but he approaches purposefully, slowly, ensuring each step of his boots makes an audible tap on the pavement as to not startle the other android.

Markus’ worry grows exponentially during his slow approach as he realises that he is not going to receive a response from the miserable looking shape on the ground without prompting. The RK800 model is equipped with more fancy gadgets than you could shake a stick at - as Carl would say - including advanced audio processing and finely tuned proximity sensors that usually render Connor in a constant cat-like state of hyper-awareness; head and eyes continuously darting around to survey his environment at the smallest noise or movement. To see the other android as he is now, frozen, listless and unmovable from his fixation into the swirling depths lodges a heavy lump of concern into the back of the deviant leaders throat. Its a rare sight to see his lover so unnaturally still, frozen solid like a discarded mannequin. 

Twin dress shoes meet each other perfectly parallel to the edge of the harbor wall, not two feet away from the hunched over form of the RK800. Markus knows the duty will fall to him to break the oppressive atmosphere that smothers the scene around them - somehow static and listless despite the brutal wind that whips around their bodies. Lips part with the smallest exhale of breath before closing again. And opening again. And closing again. And opening again…

… and closing again this time with the android lowering himself cross-legged beside his partner in resignation.

He fixes his focus on Connor, whose eyelids have since slipped closed over a haunted gaze, as he weighs his options. The RK200 knows that eventually he will have to force himself to form words and shatter this careful equilibrium - and he knows that upon doing so he will release the explosive maelstrom of emotions currently raging within the others plastic shell, threatening to split him apart at the seams if the pressure builds too high. It always happens like this. The smallest kind word on days such as these will inevitably lead the ex-deviant hunter to shatter to pieces, shrugging off the splintering ice that just seconds ago held him frozen in despair as white-hot rage takes over, filling synthetic veins with venom and acid. He will lash out, he will shout, he will say things, horrible things that sometimes shake Markus’ to his very core despite the fact that those words are never directed at him - are never directed anywhere but inwards.

But Markus will never stop breaking those silences.

Markus will never stop saying those kind words.

He chooses, for the meantime, to retain the silence that blankets them. He reaches out a dark hand towards the other, slowly and with purpose as if gaining the trust of a wild animal. The offer of touch - of a _kind_ touch - still poses the risk of releasing the coiled spring of trauma twisting itself tightly in the other's mind but the cold concern he can feel rising around his body refuses to let him sit immobile. Connor flinches minutely as fingertips rasp over the dark denim stretched across his knee. A small keening noise - almost inaudible over the roar of the wind - is briefly ripped from the back of his throat but he quickly re-settles into the silent statue that he had become hours ago at the edge of Ferndale dock. Markus takes the opportunity to flatten his palm across the others leg - warm, unmoving, and grounding - and allows himself too to become nothing but a static mannequin along the edge of the Detroit River.

There they stay. For minutes, or for hours. Weathering the storm, the memories, the pain, and the silence. Until it comes time for Markus to break it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I originally started this fic over a month ago in response to a prompt on tumblr entitled "things you said while crying" ( and i haven't even reached the crying yet!)  
> I wrote the ending of this chapter in a way that can wrap up this short story without the need for a second chapter but if anyone is interested in me continuing this and writing up Connors response to Markus' "breaking the silence" let me know in the comments :)
> 
> If not I hope you enjoyed this small slice of sadness regardless
> 
> x


End file.
